Wilt

My secrets are sticking to me,

bogging me down

left right and center,

sending me askew.

Little bricks stuck to my skin,

pulling me off-center.

No physical cleanse can remove this adhesive,

will truth set freedom loose,

or are these words going to be my noose?

When do staggering steps become cohesive?

When the steps become strides,

when without guilt,

you start feeling pride.

On truth this foundation must be built,

because I will not let this flower wilt.